


voulez-vouz

by impulserun



Series: age of miracles [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1961013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulserun/pseuds/impulserun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the one with the betting pool and a decided lack of deflowering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	voulez-vouz

**Author's Note:**

> Poor attempt at smut ahead. You have been warned.

It all starts with Eponine, Montparnasse, and a bet.

Okay, not really. What _triggers_ Eponine, Montparnasse, and the bet, really, is Enjolras.

They are sitting in the common living room when the lift doors slide open to reveal Enjolras, wild blond hair uncombed and blue eyes still bleary from sleep. A large white cotton tee hangs off his right shoulder, the other one peeking through the oversized collar.

“G’mornin’,” he yawns, rubbing his eyes, as his disappears into the kitchen. His movements are almost cat-like. Montparnasse stares after his retreating form before turning to Eponine with a smirk.

“So,” he says, “Enjolras, eh?”

“What?”

“What do you think, ninety-year-old virgin, or has his cherry been popped?”

Eponine scoffs and returns to her coffee.  “He was in the army, what do you think, Parnasse?”

“Well, yeah, but they were in the middle of a war, Ponine. You know how E gets on missions? Who’s to say if he had time for sex?”

Eponine just fixes him with a stare.

“Besides,” he adds as an afterthought. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Enjolras is, like, asexual or something. Was asexuality a thing in the 1940s?”

*

Montparnasse corners enough people with the question that Courfeyrac decides to open – and operate – a full out betting pool. (Looking back, he admits it might not have been one of his best ideas. But then again, neither was DUMMY, and the perpetually confused AI had still managed to save his life, so.)

One by one, people begin to cast their bets. Most believe that Enjolras is a virgin, because _Captain America_ , and they put enough stock in their belief to bet their money on it. Eponine is, at first, the only one to bet otherwise. Then Cosette joins the team after the complete shitfuck that Courfeyrac not-so-affectionately dubs the Great Big HYDRA Revelation, and she stands with Eponine on the side of ‘Enjolras Is Not a Virgin’ before departing with the good Captain himself for parts unknown.

(Bahorel, when not away on business in Asgard, abstains from voting, because he refuses to make sport out of a shield brother’s intimate secrets.

“It is none of my business, Man of Iron, and neither is it yours,” he says. “I would not turn the matter of a brother’s sexual debut into sport.”

“You’re no fun,” Courfeyrac pouts.

When approached, Combeferre just shoots him a Look.

“Neither are you,” Courfeyrac grumbles.)

To be honest, no one quite knows how they will settle the bet – they can’t exactly stroll up to Enjolras and ask him to his face, can they?

So they settle for adjusting and recasting their bets, dancing warily around the issue at hand. At one point, it even becomes a sort of inside joke.

Then Cosette and Enjolras return from their self-assigned mission, and Grantaire enters the fray.

*

“Say, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says suddenly. “You’re his best friend, you would know.”

“Hm?” The man looks up from the television, where he has spent the past hour lambasting lousy World War Two movies while curled up on the couch.

“Enjolras,” the brunet clarifies, sliding into the seat on Grantaire’s right. “Has he done the do?”

“Done the _what_?”

“You know,” he stops, casts about for a word, gives up, “has he had sex yet?”

“Why are you asking?” asks a bewildered Grantaire, brow furrowed. Then the puzzled frown turns into a protective glare. “Are you _trying_ to get into Enjolras’ pants? Cos I’m tellin’ you, you’re not Enjy’s type, and also I really don’t think Doctor Combeferre would appreciate –”

Courfeyrac splutters, arms flailing. “ _No_!” he yells. “No, _no_! I’m not interested in – I mean – there’s a betting pool, okay, and – I was trying to resolve the bet – oh my _God_ he’s not even my type – what even –”

“A betting pool,” repeats the ex-assassin calmly, and the murderous glint in his icy blue eyes disappears. “For a second there, I thought I might have to take up the protective family member mantle and defend Enjolras’ honour again.”

“Yeah. A betting pool. So.” He clears his throat. “Is he, you know. A virgin?”

“Tell you what,” Grantaire stifles a laugh, “I’m not the guy you should be asking, but can I place a bet too?”

*

Enjolras is lounging on their bed when Grantaire slips into their bedroom, towel tied loosely around his waist.

“Hey,” he says, not missing the way the blond’s eyes rove over his body appreciatively, or the way they track the drop of water making its way down his chest. “Do you know, you’ve got the whole tower believin’ you’re a virgin?”

“Oh, I do?” The smirk playing at his lover’s lips as he puts his book aside is enough to tell him everything he needs to know.

“Yeah, you do. They’ve got an entire betting pool based off it and everything.”

The smirk turns into a full-blown grin, and Enjolras pats the bed next to him, eyes dark. Grantaire is all too happy to join him.

“So, Monsieur Lécuyer,” he purrs, tucking a lock of blond hair behind his ear, “are you?”

“Why don’t you find out yourself, Sargent?” Enjolras purrs back. Grantaire’s towel slips off his waist and falls in a pile on the floor.

*

It’s one of those nights when Courfeyrac just can’t go to sleep. So he stays up in his lab, tinkering with minor experiments, and trying to figure out a way to stop Gavroche from hacking JAVERT’s AI to make him say strange things at the end of every sentence. (Like “Congratulations on the buttsex.” It’s starting to make Combeferre’s eye twitch. Is Gavroche even old enough to know what sex is?) He knew it was a bad idea to leave that fragment of JAVERT’s programming with him.

All in all, it really is quite a peaceful night. So when JAVERT whirrs to life with a quiet, “There seems to be a disturbance on Captain Lécuyer’s floor, sir,” Courfeyrac just sighs.

Well, he thinks, between Captain Spangly-Butt and Sergeant Squared, there shouldn’t be much cause for worry. Except for whatever breaches in security the attackers made use of. Right?

“Bring up the security feeds, JAVERT. How many intruders? What was the point of entry?”

“I just did,” snarks JAVERT in a voice suspiciously like Russell Crowe’s, and Courfeyrac silently curses Gavroche’s ingenuity. “There were no breaches in security, sir – it seems that the Captain and the Sergeant are alone.”

Oh. Well, fuck.

*

Enjolras is always beautiful, but like this, breathless and splayed out on the bed beneath him, he is breath-taking.

“Grantaire,” he whines, “Grantaire, _please_ ,” and Grantaire has to think of Agent Bossuet in Eponine’s catsuit to keep from coming right there and then.

“What do you need?” he asks, leaning down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ puffy lips. Enjolras moans as he bucks up into Grantaire’s touch.

“You,” comes the too-quick reply. “You, I need you – all of you – _please_.”

“Use your words, Enjolras,” he murmurs into the pale unbroken skin of his neck. The blond fucking _whimpers_.

“Fuck me. I want – I want you to fuck me.”

“Gonna have to be more specific, Enj.” He nips affectionately at his lover’s neck. “You want my fingers? Vibrator? My –”

“Your _cock_ ,” Enjolras cries, pupils blown wide with lust. “Your cock, Grantaire, please, I need, I _need_ –”

Smirking, Grantaire kisses him one more time before reaching over to the bedside drawer.

*

“Guys, I need back-up stat. JAVERT picked up a disturbance on Enjolras’ floor – no intruders. It could be Grantaire – his programming must have reverted or something,” Courfeyrac hisses into the inbuilt headset. There is an unintelligible grumble from Combeferre, who has just woken up and is ten floors away. Eponine and Montparnasse are away on a mission. Cosette isn’t even in the building at the moment.

He’s alone, then.

Even inside the protective armour that is his suit, Courfeyrac’s heart is racing. He’s not stupid. He’s seen the videos. Even if he’s never actually fought the Winter Soldier in full combat before – he’s sparred with Grantaire. His heart plummets. Oh god. If he lets Enjolras die Uncle Feuilly will never forgive him. Ever. If he lets Enjolras die by his _brainwashed best friend’s hand_ –

With a nervous gulp, he flexes his hand just once, almost imperceptibly, and gets ready to fly through the door.

And then. He hears a moan.

“Oh god – god, Grantaire, please – please, I need – god, _fuck_ –”

A bitten-off curse, then, “God, _Enjolras_ , the way you look right now –”

No. No fucking way.

“Grantaire _please_ please _please_ don’t – don’t tease – I’m close, I – I – _fuck_ , Gran _taire_ –”

Enjolras screams. Courfeyrac fucking _screeches_.

*

“You fucking cheated,” Courfeyrac hisses later. “You can’t just bet that he’s not a virgin and then _sleep_ with him to _make him not a virgin_.”

“Excuse you,” says Grantaire offhandedly, leaning back in his chair, and Courfeyrac absolutely does not look at the hickey on his neck or the sliver of skin that is exposed by his shirt riding upwards because that triggers memories of _oh Jesus fucking Christ_. “I deflowered Enjolras _ages_ ago, thank you very much. About seventy-ish years, give a take a few?”

“Withholding of information,” he insists weakly. “You cheated. _You don’t even have ten thousand dollars._ ”

“I won fair and square,” he continues primly. Behind him, Eponine and Cosette stifle twin giggles. “Now cough up the money, if you so please. We’ll divvy it up ourselves.”

“Never again,” Courfeyrac swears to himself. “Never again.”

*

“So,” says Montparnasse, his smile sly and sharp, “Courfeyrac and Combeferre, eh?”


End file.
